The Solitary Life of an Old Bachelor: Serene in His Own Company
Henry was a bachelor well into his later years. He lived at his own pace, and solitude had never troubled him. He worked like a carthorse, yet he adored what he did. Meticulous to a fault, everything had to be just soevery object in its rightful place. He had known many women, but none had ever seemed quite right. That year, at the end of July, he decided to take a holiday and head south. Wearied by routine, he longed for an escape from civilisation. He went online and placed an advert.
A woman with two children replied, living in a quiet Cornish village. The beach was a twenty-minute walk away, but the place was far from resorts and bustling towns. There was a private room, and in exchange for the groceries he brought, she would cook him homemade meals. In the end, he convinced himself. The journey went smoothlythe satnav didnt fail him. The house was old but clean, the room cosy, and the owner, Eleanor, kind. In the yard trotted a small dog, a terrier. In the garden, fruit ripened on the trees, while the two children, a boy and a girl of nine or ten, helped with chores. Eleanor didnt bother him, only asking what hed like to eat, piling his plate with strawberries, and smiling sweetly.
Henry spent his days on the beachswimming, clambering over rocks, taking pictures, and exchanging messages with an old friend on Facebook. Sometimes, he wondered how a woman in her fifties had such young children. Finally, he asked:
“Eleanor, are these your grandchildren?”
“No,” she replied, “theyre mine, just late arrivals. Life didnt lead me to marry, but I wanted children. And Im not so oldonly forty-eight.”
As they talked, Henry studied her more closely. She was pleasant, quick to laugh, and he liked her name. Eleanor. Ellie. His mother had been called the same. She smelled of strawberries and fresh butter. The cider was crisp, the nights mild, and the sky full of stars. Neither of them danced around thingsthey were adults. By day, everything seemed ordinary, but at night, Henry slipped quietly to Eleanors side of the house. Later, he returned to his own room. The children mustnt wake. The dog never barked, only watched him with knowing eyes, as if understanding everything. Good girl, thrifty. She ate two spoonfuls and patrolled the garden diligently. Her name was Maisie.
And Maisie began following him to the beach, swimming with him, shaking off sand, drying in the sun before trotting home ahead of him. Hed follow after. But one day, Maisie didnt appear. Henry searched everywhere, called her name, pinned dozens of posters around the village. Where could the dog be? An elderly neighbour suggested that perhaps some outsiders renting a house at the far end of the village had taken her. Henry went there. He arrived just in time to hear theyd left an hour earlier, heading for the main roadwith a small dog in tow.
Henry jumped into his car and sped off. He caught up with them eighty miles down the road, blocking their path. Two young women climbed out of the jeep, bold and brash.
“Oi, move your car! Cant you drive? Well call the police!”
“Call them,” Henry said, “but first, give back the dog.”
“Youre lucky,” laughed the taller one. “She was a straywere rescuing her.”
“Shes not a stray,” he said. “She has a family. Shes not yours.”
“Piss off!” shrieked the other. “If you dont move, well smash your windows!”
Henry stepped past them and called, “Maisie!” The dog began barking, scrambling across the seats, trying to reach the half-open window. The girls grabbed at her, cursing and swinging at Henry. He didnt know what to dohe wouldnt hit a woman.
Luckily, a police officer appeared, sweating and weary. Covering his ears against the girls shrieks, he lifted Maisie.
“Quiet! The dog goes to whoever she chooses. Neither of you has papers for her.”
“Come here, sweetie,” the girls coaxed, waving a slice of ham.
“Come on, Maisie,” Henry said.
The officer set her down. She bolted straight to Henry, tail wagging, barking joyfully.
“Seems settled,” the officer sighed.
“No, shes ours!” the girls screeched. “He cant take her! Well report you to your superior!”
The officer turned red.
“Either leave now, or Ill inspect your insurance, extinguisher, warning triangle, first-aid kit, and count every pill in the car. Its filthy, and for good measure, Ill check if its stolen. The systems back at the station…”
The jeep vanished fast.
Henry shook the officers hand.
“Thank you.”
“Not at all. Ive got a little dog like this myself. Clever and stubborn. In winter, she wears a coatcant stand the cold. Good breed, loyal. Handy size, too. Safe travels. Stay lawful.”
Henry got back in the car. Maisie curled in his lap, warm, her fur soft as velvet. He felt goodhadnt felt this way in years. The road was quiet, the engine humming, Maisie peaceful. But in that calm, his heart clenched. Soon, hed have to leave. No one waited for him at home. The thought of taking Maisie with him flickered in his mind. What did he have to lose? A few shirts, some underwear, a tracksuit. The idea winked at him. Henry tucked it away, sighed, and drove back to Eleanors.
The last week was rainy, but Henry still went to the beach. And Maisie with him. At night, he slipped into Ellies room, and each morning, the ache grew heavier. On the day of departure, the sun shone. Henry had packed the night before. He left Eleanor a gift, said his goodbyes, gave her his number, and climbed into the car.
He drove slowly, thinking his holiday and summer fling were overtime to return to routine. Hed just left the dirt track for tarmac when he saw Maisie sprinting after him. He sped up. She ran faster. Henry pressed the accelerator.
The dog began to fall behind, vanishing from sight. He stopped. Stepped out, lit a cigarette, hands shaking. He smoked it down, stubbed it out, and stared down the road.
A tiny speck moved on the tarmac. Henry ran, praying no car would hit her. He hadnt run like this in years. Maisie galloped, as if mustering her last strength. Dust coated her fur, her tongue, her eyes, even her little ears. Her tail wagged, and she tried to bark, but only sneezed.
Henry scooped her up, wiped her down, gave her water from the bottle. Then he called Eleanor, a smile in his voice: “Fancy a change of scenery? Me, Maisie, and two little passengers are on our way back home.”
